The Novels of Alexander the Great: Fire From Heaven, the Persian Boy, and Funeral Games

28

TIME PASSES, ALL THINGS pass. He ate, and began to sleep, and to meet his friends. He even gave one or two audiences. His shorn hair began to grow. He would talk to me, sometimes, of daily things. But he did not recall the embassy on its way to Siwah.

Autumn drew to winter. It was past the time when the kings had been used to leave for Babylon. There were embassies from half over the empire and beyond, on their way to meet him there.

The Egyptians had worked their skill upon Hephaistion. He lay in a gilded coffin, on a dais hung with precious cloths, in one of the state rooms. The trophies of arms, the dedications, were set up around him. They had not swaddled and cased and masked him, as they do it here in Egypt. A body they have treated, even unwrapped, will keep the features of life for many ages. Alexander often went to visit him. Once he took me, because I had worthily praised the dead, and lifted the lid for me to see him. He lay upon cloth of gold, in the pungent smell of spices and of niter; he would blaze like a torch, when they came to burn him in Babylon. His face was handsome and stern, the color of darkened ivory. His hands were crossed on his breast; they rested on the shorn locks of Alexander’s hair.

Time passed; he could talk to his friends now; and then his generals in their soldiers’ wisdom, doing what I could not, brought him the medicine that had power to do him good. Ptolemy came to him, to say that the Kossaians had sent to demand their tribute.

They were a tribe of famous brigands, who lived about the passes between Ekbatana and Babylon. Caravans which took that road would wait till they were big enough to hire a regiment of guards. Every year, it seems, even the kings had been raided, till they’d agreed to pay a sackful of gold darics before the autumn progress, to buy the Kossaians off. This toll was overdue, and they had sent to ask for it.

Alexander’s “What?” was almost like old times. “Tribute?” he said. “Let them wait. I’ll give them tribute.”

“It’s very difficult country,” said clever Ptolemy, rubbing his chin. “Those forts are eagles’ nests. Ochos could never reduce them.”

“You and I will, though,” said Alexander.

He set out within seven days. Any Kossaians he killed, he said, he would dedicate to Hephaistion, as Achilles had done the Trojans on Patroklos’ pyre.

I packed my things without asking. He had given me no more of those hidden looks; he took me for granted, all that I asked just now. I had accepted in my heart that he might never take me to bed again, lest it grieve Hephaistion’s spirit. That mourning had become an accustomed thing. I would live, if I could be near him.

In the passes, Alexander split his force between himself and Ptolemy. Up here it was already winter. We were an army camp, as in Great Kaukasos, moving light as the forts fell one by one. Each night he turned in, no longer brooding, but full of the day’s campaign. On the seventh day, for the first time he laughed.

Though the Kossaians were robbers and murderers, without whom mankind is better, I had dreaded for his sake some sick-brained, furious slaughter. But he’d been brought to himself. Certainly he killed when battle called for it; perhaps Hephaistion was pleased, if the dead like blood as much as Homer says. But he took prisoners as his custom was, and held the chiefs for bargaining. His mind was as clear as ever. He saw every goat-track to the eagles’ nests; his ruses and surprises were an artist’s work. Artists are healed by their art.

After one such triumph, he gave supper in his tent to his chief officers. I said beforehand, easily, “Your hair wants trimming, Al’skander,” and he let me take off the ragged ends. That night he got rather drunk. He had never done it since the death; it would have been base to drown that grief. Now he did it in victory, and as I helped him to bed my heart was lighter.

We moved on to the next stronghold. He set the siege-lines. The first snow whitened the tops, and the men drew close round the fires. He came in glowing from frost and flame, and greeted the guardian squires as he used to do. When I brought the night-lamp, he reached out and drew me by the hand.

I offered no art that night, or no more than had become my nature; only the tenderness from which pleasure springs of itself like flowers from rain. I had to rub my eyes on the pillow to hide my tears of joy. I saw on his sleeping face the marks of madness and pain and sleeplessness; but they were wounds turning to scars. He lay at peace.

I thought, He has rebuilt the legend in everlasting bronze. He will keep faith with it, if he lives to threescore and ten. Hephaistion’s regiment is always to bear his name whoever may command it, just so he will be forever Alexander’s lover; no one else will ever hear, “I love you best.” But in that shrine will be only the legend dwelling; the man will be hissing blue flames, then dust. Let his place be in Olympos, with the immortals, so long as my place is here.

I stole off softly, before he woke. He was attacking the fort at daybreak; he would not have time to think of it overlong.

The Kossaians had never been hunted in midwinter, in all their wicked history. The last forts, starved out, surrendered in return for the captives’ freedom. It had all taken forty days. Alexander garrisoned the strongpoints along the pass, pulled down the rest, and the war was over. The caravans poured through. The Royal Household was sent for, to come down to Babylon. Already hard red buds gemmed the bare bushes shedding their snow.

But for his madness, he could have wintered down there, in the mild season, planning the new harbor and the Arabian fleet. Now he’d be there when the Persian kings would have been thinking of Persepolis. All through the Kossaian war, the troops of embassies had been kicking their heels, awaiting him.

They met him when he pitched camp beyond the Tigris. He had made ready for them in state; but no one had been prepared for what really came.

They were not just from the empire, but from most of the known world; from Libya, with a crown of African gold; from Ethiopia, with the teeth of hippocamps and the tusks of enormous elephants; from Carthage, with lapis and pearls and spices; from Scythia, with Hyperborean amber. Huge blond Kelts came from the northwest, russet Etruscans from Italy; even Iberians from beyond the Pillars. They hailed him as King of Asia; they brought disputes from far beyond his frontiers, begging his wise judgment. They came with dedications, asking oracles, as Greeks go to the greatest shrines of their gods.

Most of these distant folk must have looked for a man of towering stature; some of the Kelts were as tall as Poros; yet none left his presence wondering why he was what he was. He was equal even to having the earth laid in his hands.

Indeed, in our time his face has changed the very faces of the gods. Look where you like, at the statues and the paintings. All the world remembers his eyes.

It helped his sickness, to be seen for what he was. After all he’d suffered, the Greeks were muttering that he’d reached a fortune above the human lot, and the gods are envious. To one such I said, “Speak for your own. Ours is Great King and envies no one; he rejoices in light and glory. That’s why we offer him fire.” No wonder the Greeks have envious gods, being full of envy themselves.

For three days he had no time for grieving. He went on exalted in his mind, remembering Siwah, and thinking of the west, whose peoples he’d now first seen. But sometimes his face would change, as if sorrow touched his shoulder, saying, “Had you forgotten me?”

In the river plains, already the corn pricked the rich earth with green. Babylon’s black walls lay along the flat horizon, when to our last camp on the road a man came riding. It was Niarchos, from the city. Though his hardships had left their mark, you could now see he was only forty; yet he looked care-ridden, to me. Oh no, I thought; don’t bring new troubles just when he is better. So I stayed to listen.

Alexander welcomed him, asked after his welfare and the fleet’s; then said, “And now tell me what’s wrong.”

“Alexander, it’s the Chaldean priests, the astrologers.”

“What’s amiss with them? I gave them a fortune to rebuild the Zeus-Bel temple. What are they after now?”

“It’s not that,” Niarchos said.

Though I could not see him from where I was, I felt a sinking. It was not his seaman’s way, to beat about.

“Well, what, then?” said Alexander. “What’s the matter?”

“Alexander, they read me my stars before we marched to India. It all came true. So just now I went again. They told me something that … upset me. Alexander, I knew you when you were so high. I know your birthday, the place, hour, everything they need. I asked them to read the stars for you. They say Babylon’s in a bad aspect for you now. They were coming out on their own account, to warn you off. It’s a lee shore for you, they say. Unlucky.”

There was a little pause. Alexander said, quietly, “How unlucky?”

“Very. That’s why I came.”

A shorter pause. “Well, I’m glad to see you. Tell me, have they finished building the temple?”

“They’re barely past the foundations. I don’t know why.”

He laughed. “I do. They’ve been drawing the sacred tax for the temple upkeep, ever since Xerxes pulled it down. For generations. They must be the richest priests on earth. They thought I’d never be back, and it could go on forever. No wonder they don’t want me through the gates.”

Niarchos cleared his throat. “I didn’t know that. But … they told me I’d be in ordeal by water, and live to be honored by a king, and marry well with a foreign woman. I told you at the wedding feast.”

“They knew you were an admiral and my friend. Wonderful! Come to supper.”

He arranged for Niarchos’ lodging, and finished his day’s work.

At bedtime, he looked up at me leaning over him, and said, “Eavesdropper! Don’t look so woebegone. It serves you right.”

“Al’skander!” I fell on my knees beside him. “Do as they say. Never mind if they keep the money. They’re not seers, they don’t need to be pure of heart; it’s a learning they have. Everyone says so.”

He reached and ran a lock of my hair between his finger and thumb. “So? Kallisthenes had learning, too.”

“They’d be afraid to lie. All their honor’s in true predictions. I’ve lived in Babylon, I’ve talked to all sorts of people in the dancing-houses—”

“Have you indeed?” He tugged at the lock softly. “Tell me more.”

“Al’skander, don’t go into the city.”

“What’s to be done with you? Get in, you’re not fit to sleep alone.”

The Chaldeans met him next day.

They came in their sacred robes of a shape unchanged for centuries. Incense was burned before them; their wands bore the emblems of the stars. Alexander met them in his parade armor, all Macedonian. Somehow they persuaded him to come apart among them, with only the interpreter. Chaldeans have almost their own language, and Babylonians don’t speak good Persian either; but I hoped enough would reach him to move his mind.

He came back looking serious. He was not one of those who think God has no name but the one they heard in childhood.

They had begged him to march east; which would have taken him to Susa. But all his dearest concerns were fixed in Babylon; the new harbor, the Arabian voyage, Hephaistion’s funeral rites. He was still in doubt of their good faith. Old Aristander was dead, whom he could have asked to take the omens.

At all events, he said that since the west was unpropitious, he would go round the city on the eastward side, and reach the South Gate that way.

There is no Eastern Gate, and we soon knew why. That side, we came to a great stretch of marsh, treacherous and full of pools. The Euphrates seeped round into it. He could still have made a greater circuit, even if it crossed and recrossed the Tigris, and come back up the Euphrates. But he said impatiently, “That settles it. I’m not squatting like a frog in a swamp to please the Chaldeans.” Since the embassies, he knew the world’s eyes were on him. Perhaps that really settled it. At all events he turned back, by north and west.

Still he did not enter the gates, but camped up river. Then he heard more embassies were coming, this time from Greece. Anaxarchos, ever officious, reminded him that Greek thinkers no longer believe in omens. It touched his pride.

The Palace had been long prepared for him. As he drove through the gates in Darius’ chariot, ravens fought overhead, and one fell dead before his horses.

However, as if to confound the auguries, the first news that met him was of life and fortune. Roxane had traveled straight down from Ekbatana to the Palace Harem. When he visited her there, it was to hear that she was with child.

She had known already, at Ekbatana; she told him she had waited to make quite sure. The truth, as I have no doubt, was that it was at the time of his madness, and she’d been afraid to give him news that would bring him near her.

He made her all the accustomed gifts of honor, and sent her father the news. He himself took it quietly. Perhaps he’d given up the thought that she would conceive by him, and had meant, in due time, to breed an heir from Stateira. Perhaps his mind was on other things.

When he gave me the news, I cried, “Oh, Al’skander! May you live to see him victorious at your side!”

I grasped him in both hands, as if I had power to defy the heavens. We stood in silence, understanding each other. At last he said, “If I’d married in Macedon, as my mother wanted, before I crossed to Asia, the boy would have been twelve by now. But there was never time. There is never time enough.” He kissed me and went away.

It was torment to me to have him out of my sight. I watched him move among the half-forgotten splendors known to my boyhood. Then, I had come here light of heart. Now fear and grief hung on me like a sickness. Why had he listened to the Chaldeans, obeyed their warning and then defied it? It is Hephaistion, I thought, reaching out to him from the dead.

One must live, he’d said to me long ago, as if it would be forever, and as if each moment might be the last. He began at once to have the great harbor dug, and the fleet built for Arabia, which Niarchos would command. It was spring now, as warm as a Susa summer. He would ride back from the new harbor, and make for the royal bath. Nothing in the Palace gave him so much pleasure. He loved the cool walls, the fretted screens glimpsing the river, the great bath with its lapis-blue tiles and their golden fish. He would float there with the water lifting his hair.

But there was always Hephaistion. He was due now for his rite of burning.

The fleet and the new harbor were both in hand. Alexander had time; and soon he had time only for this. He returned a little into his madness. If one woke him, he was sensible; but he would drift back into dreams. Alexander’s dreams were daimons. He conjured them, and they obeyed him.

He had ten furlongs of the city wall knocked half down, and leveled out to a square. Within this he had a platform made of fine tiles, each side a furlong. That was the base of the pyre. From that it tapered up, story upon story; each tier with carved sculptures, as fine in wood as if they’d been meant to last forever. At the bottom, ships’ prows with archers and warriors, larger than life; then torches twenty feet long, adorned with eagles and serpents; then a scene of wild beasts and hunters, gilded. Next above, trophies of arms, both Macedonian and Persian, to show both races had held the dead in honor. Above that I don’t know what, elephants, lions, garlands. Near the top were figures of winged sirens, hollow behind, in which singers would lament before the pyre was kindled. Great crimson flags hung down between the stages. There was room inside for a stairway, to bring him up with dignity.

I thought, No king has gone like this since the world began. He has dreamed it as if it were for himself. I watched his face, his eyes lifted to the pyre in his quiet madness, and dared do nothing, not even touch him.

The funeral car had been escorted by Perdikkas from Ekbatana. Hephaistion lay in state in the Palace, here as there. Alexander went oftener to see him now; he would soon be gone. Medios of Larissa, who had been his friend, had a little bronze likeness of him made, by a sculptor who’d seen him often, to give Alexander. He received it so gladly, that one friend after another, vying in affection or for favor, had small statues made in gold or ivory or alabaster. Soon the room was full of them; he was there wherever I looked. And I had thought that when the pyre was kindled, that would be the end of him.

One day, being alone, I took the best likeness into my hand, thinking, Who were you, what are you, that you can do this to my lord? He came in behind me, and said, “Put that down!” with such anger that I nearly dropped it. I put it back somehow, shaking with fear of exile. He said more quietly, “What were you doing?” I answered, “He was dear to you. I wanted to understand him.”

He took a turn across the room, then said, “He knew me.”

No more. I was pardoned, he meant no hurt. I had asked, he answered.

They had been born in the same month, in the same hills, of the same race, with the same gods; had lived under one roof from their fourteenth year. Truly, when to me we had seemed like one, to how much I had been a stranger.

Time will pass, I thought. They could bear to be parted on campaign; it will come to seem only like that. If there is time.

The day came. In the dusk before dawn, they lined the square about the platform; generals, princes, satraps, priests; standard-bearers, heralds, musicians; the painted elephants. By the steps were the braziers and the torches.

The bearers took up the coffin by the hidden stairs. As they reached the topmost deck, looking small as toys, and laid it on its stand, the hidden sirens sang, faint in the sky. They came down, still singing. The torches were kindled at the braziers.

The pyre stood on palm-wood columns; the space between was piled up with tinder and dry straw. Alexander came forward with his torch, alone.

He was exalted above his madness, into ecstasy. Peukestas, who’d seen him fight on with the Mallian arrow in him, said later that then he looked just the same. The elephants curled back their trunks and trumpeted.

He flung in his torch; flames leaped from it. The friends followed; the brands pelted in; the fire jumped through the gratings, into the tier of ships. It began to roar.

The pyre was tinder-filled up its center, through all its two hundred feet. The blaze spired upward, past ships and archers and lions and eagles and shields and garlands. At the top it enwrapped the coffin, and burst in a great peak of flame, against the green sky of sunrise.

Once at Persepolis, that feast of fire, they had looked up side by side.

For a while the high tower stood in its fearful beauty; then tier after tier caved in. An eagle crashed to the platform with flaming wings; the sirens toppled inwards; the coffin vanished. The timbers, the heavy carvings, began to hurtle down, throwing up spark-clouds tall as trees. The pyre was a single torch burning to its socket, by whose light I saw his face alone.

The sun came up. The whole parade stood stupefied in the heat. When nothing was left but red embers and white ash, he gave the order to dismiss. He gave it himself. I had thought they would have to wake him.

As he was leaving, a crowd of priests approached him, robed from all kinds of temples. He answered briefly and passed on. They looked unhappy. I overtook one of the squires who had been near, and asked what it had been about.

He said, “They asked if they could rekindle the sacred fires now. He said not till sundown.”

I stared at him, unbelieving. “The temple fires? He ordered them put out?”

“Yes, for the mourning. Bagoas, you look bad, it was all that heat. Come in the shade here. Does it mean something in Babylon?”

“They do it when the King is dead.”

Silence fell between us. At last he said, “But when he ordered it, they must have told him that.”

I hurried to the Palace, hoping to get him alone. Even to light them now might avert the omen. Had there not been enough, that he must make his own?

But already he had summoned a score of people, and was finishing off plans for the funeral contests. Grave Persian faces showed me that others had tried to warn him. Old Palace eunuchs who had lived to see the fires three times doused, were whispering, and rolled their eyes my way. I did not join them. The temples were dark till sunset. Alexander worked on the games all day. There had been nothing much left to do, but it seemed that he could not stop.

They lasted near half a month. All the best artists from all the Greek lands were there. I went to the plays, mostly to watch his face. Only one of them stays with me, The Myrmidons, which Thettalos had done before for Alexander; it’s about Achilles, and Patroklos’ death. Thettalos himself had just lost a dear friend, a fellow actor who had died on the journey down from Ekbatana. He carried it through; he was a professional. Alexander sat as if his mind were far away. I knew the look. He had had it when Peukestas cut out the arrow.

The music seemed to do him good; he looked released from himself when the kitharists were playing. Afterwards he entertained all the winners, saying just the right things to each. Perhaps, I thought, the last of the madness had been seared out of him by so much burning.

He began to go down again to the river, to watch the seamen training; he held races for the rowers, and offered prizes. Then the embassies from Greece arrived.

They were envoys of compliment, to honor his safe return from the world’s end. They brought gold crowns, exquisite wreaths of jewelers’ work, and scrolls of honor. Even the envious Athenians came, full of lying compliments. He knew they lied. But he gave them in return the statues of the Liberators, fetched from Susa, to put back on their citadel. When he made the presentation, he pointed as if by chance to the daggers, and caught my eye.

The last embassy was from Macedon.

It was not like the rest. The regent, Antipatros, whom Krateros was to supersede, had sent his son to speak for him.

During all his years of regency, which went back to King Philip’s day, Queen Olympias had hated him, my belief being that she wished to govern instead. Knowing of all her slanders, it was perhaps no wonder if he thought they had made their mark, and he’d been sent for to go on trial; for ten years he’d not set eyes on Alexander, to know him better. Even so, one would have thought he’d have had more sense than to send his son Kassandros. That is, if his faith was good.

Whenever Alexander had told me about his boyhood, he’d mentioned this youth, as then he’d been, with detestation. They had disliked each other at sight, and on all through their schooldays; once they had come to blows. The reason he had been left behind in Macedon was simply that Alexander would not have him in the army.

However, he had helped his father put down a rising in southern Greece, and done quite well there; no doubt both had hoped that this would recommend him now. He arrived, after so long, almost a stranger; only this stranger and Alexander hated each other on sight, as they’d done before.

He was an arrogant, freckled, red-haired man, with the old-time Macedonian beard. He was also, of course, a perfect stranger to court life in Persia. One had forgotten such people existed.

No doubt he was mad with envy. The Throne Room had been refurnished, to receive the embassies; about the throne was a great half-circle of couches with silver feet, where the King’s chief friends, Persian and Macedonian, had a right to sit when he gave audience. All the Household would stand behind him. My own place, now we were back among real procedure, was near the throne. I was there to watch Kassandros when he came. While he awaited Alexander, I saw him look at us eunuchs as if we were noxious vermin.

The audience did not go well. There had been petitioners out from Macedon to plead causes against the regent. Kassandros was too hasty, in saying they had come to be well away from all the evidence; I think one, at least, had been sent by Queen Olympias. Only one man had ever been allowed to speak against her to Alexander, and he was dead. Alexander broke the audience off, and asked Kassandros to wait while he saw some Persians.

Barbarians before him! I could see his fury. He stepped back, and the Persians, who were below the rank of Royal Kin, made the prostration.

Kassandros sneered. It is not true, as some say, that he laughed aloud. He was an envoy with work to do. Nor is it true that Alexander knocked his head on the wall. He had no need.

It is true the sneer was open; I suppose anger made him reckless. He turned to some companion he’d brought with him, pointing a finger. Alexander let the Persians rise, spoke to them, dismissed them; then stepped down from the throne, grasped Kassandros in one hand by the hair, and stared into his face.

I thought, He is going to kill him. So did Kassandros I daresay. But it was more than that. It was more than the kingly power, more even than the word of Ammon’s oracle. He had been through fire and darkness. All he needed was to lay it bare. Kassandros stared as the bird does at the serpent, white with pure naked terror of man for man.

“You have leave to go,” said Alexander.

It was a good way to the doors. He must have known his fear had marked him like a brand, and all we creatures of his scorn had seen it.

Later on, when I had Alexander alone, I said to him, “Hate like that is dangerous. Why don’t you pack him off home?” He answered, “Oh, no. He’d go back and tell Antipatros I’m his enemy; urge him to revolt, kill Krateros when he gets there, and seize Macedon. Antipatros might do it, if he was put in fear of his life. Let alone, he has more sense. If I meant him harm, I’d hardly have his other son as cupbearer. He’s been where he is too long, that’s all. No, till Krateros is in Macedon and Antipatros leaves it, Kassandros stays here under my eye … Hephaistion could never stand him, either.”

In earlier days, I’d have begged him to have the man put quietly out of the way. I knew that what he would not own to, he would not do. It is my life’s regret I did not take it on myself in secret. It torments me, to think that with one little phial I might have quenched that murderous hate that has pursued my lord even beyond the tomb; his mother, his wife, the son I never saw, who would have given us something more of him than memory.

Summer came on. All Persian kings would have been at Ekbatana. I knew he would never ride through those gates again; I was only glad he had the fleet and harbor to keep him busy. It was four months since the Chaldeans’ prophecy. Except when I saw the new Bel temple going up, I could almost forget them.

Soon we left the city for a while. Down river, there were floods every year when the snows at its source were melting, and the people there, who were of old Assyrian stock, lived poor because of it. Alexander wanted to plan dams and canals against it, and make new farmlands. It was only a river cruise, but it cheered me to have him outside the walls.

He always loved rivers. The ships wound among man-tall reed-beds, the Assyrian pilots conning the channels. Sometimes great shade-trees met above, and we glided through green caves; sometimes we pushed through lily-pads in open pools; the river has many branches there. Alexander would stand in the prow, and sometimes take the helm. He had on the same old sun-hat he used to wear in Gedrosia.

The stream broadened between drooping willows which tossed in a flaw of wind. Among them stood blockish ancient stonework; with figures, worn by time and flooding, of winged lions and bulls, man-headed. When Alexander asked about them, the Babylonian shipmaster said, “Great King, those are the tombs of the old-time kings, when the Assyrians ruled here. This was their burial ground.”

On the words, a gust plucked off Alexander’s sun-hat, and whirled it overboard. Its purple ribbon, the symbol of royalty, was loosened and carried away. It whipped itself round the rushes beside a tomb.

The ship glided on by its own way; the rowers had shipped their oars. All along the craft passed a murmur of awe and dread.

A rower, a young quick swarthy man, dived off, struck for the bank, and unwound the ribbon. He paused with it in his hand, thought of the muddy water, and wound it round his head to keep it dry. Alexander took it with a word of thanks. He was quiet. I had all I could do not to cry aloud. The diadem had gone to a tomb, and passed to another head.

When his work was done, he went back to Babylon. I could have beaten my breast, at the sight of those black walls.

When he told the seers about the omen, they all said that the head which had worn the diadem ought to be struck off. “No,” he said. “He meant well and did what anyone might. You can give him a beating, if the gods demand some expiation. Don’t lay on too hard, and send him to me after.” When the man came he gave him a talent of silver.

We returned to nothing but prosperity. Peukestas proudly paraded a well-trained army of twenty thousand Persians. His province was in first-class order; he was better liked than ever. Alexander gave public commendations; and began a scheme for a new Persian-Macedonian force. No one mutinied; even Macedonians had started to think that Persians might be men. Some of our words were passing into their speech.

The day came, long waited for, when the embassy returned from Siwah.

Alexander received it in the Throne Room, his Companions round him on the silver couches. Ceremoniously, the chief envoy unrolled Ammon’s papyrus. He had refused to share his godhead; but Hephaistion still had his place with the immortals. He had been proclaimed a divine hero.

Alexander was content. After his first madness, he must have guessed it was as far as the god would go. Hephaistion could still be worshipped.

Commands went out to all the cities, to build him a temple or a shrine. (Here in Alexandria, I often pass the empty site near the Pharos. I expect Kleomenes, who was satrap then, took all the money.) Prayers and sacrifices were to be offered him, as an averter of evil. All solemn contracts must be sworn in his name, beside the names of the gods.

(The temple he should have had in Babylon was in the Greek style, with a frieze of lapiths and centaurs. That place is empty too. I don’t suppose one stone of all those sacred places was ever set on another. Well, he should still be satisfied. He had his sacrifice.)

Alexander feasted the envoys, in honor of Hephaistion’s immortality. The other guests were friends who would understand. He was lighthearted, almost radiant. One would have thought the omens all forgotten.

He was some days happy and busy, having drawings done for the shrines. He called on Roxane, whom he found healthy and strong; Sogdian women don’t make much of pregnancy. Then he pressed on with plans for the new mixed army.

It meant changes in all the forces. When he was ready to reassign commands, he sent for the officers, to appoint them. He was in the Throne Room; he knew well by now what proper ceremony means to Persians. The Household was assembled behind the throne.

It was now full summer and very hot. He broke off halfway through, to take his friends to the inner room for a drink of cold citron-water mixed with wine. They would not be long; it was not worth going away; we waited behind the empty throne and the couches, and talked of trifles.

We never saw the man, till he was among us. A man in shabby clothes, a common man among thousands, but for his face. To his crazed intentness, all of us were invisible. Before we had time to move, he had sat down on the throne.

We stared appalled, hardly believing. It is the most dreadful of all omens; that is why, through all our people’s history, it has been a capital crime. Some of us leaped forward to drag him off, but the old ones cried out in warning. It would unman the kingdom, for eunuchs to free the throne. They began to wail and to beat their breasts, and we joined their lamentation. For a while it lulls the mind, and one need not think.

The officers down in the hall, aroused by the noise, ran up in horror, seized the man and had him down from the dais. He stared about, as if bewildered by this concern. Alexander came out from the inner room, his friends behind him, and asked what was going on.

One of the officers told him, and showed the man. He was a common soldier, unarmed, an Uxian if I remember. Of us the King asked nothing. I suppose our outcry had told enough.

He walked over and said, “Why did you do this?” The man stood and blinked, without mark of respect, as if at any stranger. Alexander said, “If he was sent for this, then I must know who sent him. Don’t question him till I am there.”

To us he said, “Quiet. That is enough. The audience is open.” He finished the assignments, without carelessness, without haste.

At sundown, he came up to change his clothes. Now we were at Babylon, we had the whole ceremonial. It was I who handled the Mitra. Reading my eyes, as soon as was proper he sent out the rest. Before I could ask, he said, “Yes, we questioned him. I had it stopped. He knew nothing, not even what brought him there. He could only say he saw a fine chair and sat in it. He was due for court-martial, for repeated disobedience; of course he had not understood his orders. I am satisfied he was out of his mind.”

He spoke coolly and firmly. All my blood stood still. I had longed to know that the man had confessed to deceit and a human plot, though one look at his face had told me. It is the true omens, that come without intent.

“Al’skander,” I said, “this one you will have to kill.”

“That has been done. It is the law; and the seers said it was necessary.” He walked to the flagon-stand, filled a wine-cup and made me drink. “Come, make a better face for me. The gods will do what they will. Meantime we live, and they will that too.”

I swallowed the wine like medicine, and tried to smile. He was wearing a thin white robe of Indian stuff, for the summer heat, which showed his body like the robes the sculptors carve. I set down the cup and threw my arms round him. He seemed to glow from within, as always. He felt unquenchable as the sun.

When he was gone, I looked about at the images of gold and bronze and ivory, watching gravely from their stands. “Leave hold of him!” I said. “Are you not yet content? You died through your own fault, through disobedience, impatience, greed. Could you not love him enough to spare him that? Then leave him to me, who love him more.” They all looked back at me and answered, “Ah, but I knew him.”

More embassies came from the Greeks, garlanded as they come before their gods. Once more they crowned him; with gold fruiting olive, gold barley-ears, gold laurel, gold summer flowers. I can see him still, wearing each crown.

A few days later, his friends said that with all these triumphs, he himself had not yet celebrated his victory over the Kossaians. (They were now so much won over, he had taken some thousands into the army.) It was long, they said, since he’d held a komos; and the feast of Herakles was coming.

They meant no harm. Even the worst sought only favor; the best wanted in kindness to give him a carefree evening, make him remember his glory and forget his grief. The gods can do with anything what they will.

He proclaimed the feast, ordered sacrifices to Herakles, and gave the troops a free wine-issue all round. The komos began at sundown.

It was a sweltering Babylon night. They had soon done with the food. I had planned, with his friends, a small surprise for him; a dance of Macedonians and Persians, four a side, mock-war first and then friendship. We were bare, but for helmets and kilts or trousers. Alexander was very pleased with it, called me to sit by him on his supper couch, and shared his gold cup with me.

His face was flushed; no wonder, with the heat and wine, but there was a brightness about his eyes I didn’t like. I had had a quick rubdown to take off the sweat, but was of course still warm. When he put his arm round me, I felt that he was hotter.

“Al’skander,” I said under the noise, “you feel like fever.”

“No more than a touch. It’s nothing. I’ll turn in after the torch-song.”

Soon they took up the torches, and walked singing into the gardens, to get the night’s first cool. I slipped off to the Bedchamber, to see everything was ready. I was glad to hear the chant returning and tailing off. He came in. If we’d been alone, I’d have said, “To bed with you now, and quick about it.” But before the Household I always observed the forms. I stepped forward to take the diadem. His robe came off damp with sweat, and I saw him shiver. He said, “Just rub me down, and find me something a little warmer.”

“My lord,” I said, “you are not going out again?”

“Yes, Medios has a little party, just old friends. I promised to look in.”

I gazed at him in entreaty. He smiled and shook his head. He was Great King, not to be disputed with before the Household. It is in our blood, that such things must not be done; therefore we cannot do them, without the air of insolence. As I rubbed him down, my eye caught the stands of images. Why are you not here, I thought, now when you could be useful, to say, “Don’t be a fool; you are going to bed if I have to push you in. Bagoas, go and tell Medios the King can’t come”?

But the images held their hero poses; and Alexander in a Greek robe of fine wool went with his torchbearers down the great corridor with its lion frieze.

I said to the rest, “You may all retire. I will wait up for the King. I will have you called, if he needs attendance.”

There was a divan I slept on, if he was going to be late; his coming always woke me. The moon climbed the sky before my open eyes. When he came, the cocks were crowing.

He looked flushed and tired, and walked unsteadily; he’d been drinking, on and off, from sunset till dawn; but he was very sweet-tempered, and praised my war-dance. “Al’skander,” I said, “I could be angry with you. You know wine’s bad for a fever.”

“Oh, it’s gone off. I told you it was nothing. I’ll make up my sleep today. Come to the bath with me, you’ve been all night in your clothes.”

The first light shone through the screens, and the birds were singing. The bath left me refreshed and drowsy; when I’d put him to bed, I turned in myself and slept till nearly evening.

I went softly into the Bedchamber. He was just awake, turning restlessly. I went up and felt his brow. “Al’skander, it has come back.”

“Nothing much,” he said. “Cool hands. Don’t take them away.”

“I’ll have supper brought here. The river fish is good. And what about a doctor?”

His face hardened, and he moved his head from my hands. “No doctors. I’ve seen enough of them. No, I’ll get up. I’m having supper with Medios.”

I argued, implored; but he had woken cross and impatient. “I tell you it’s nothing. The swamp-fever, I expect. It’s over in three days.”

“Maybe for the Babylonians; they’re seasoned. It can be bad. Why can’t you take care of yourself? You’re not at war.”

“With you I will be, if you go on like a wet-nurse. I’ve been sicker than this, riding all day over mountains. Give out that I want to dress.”

I wished he’d been going to anyone but Medios, who would take no care of him, or notice anything wrong. He’d been a great supporter of Hephaistion in his quarrel with Eumenes; making it worse, I’d heard, for he had a biting tongue, and some of his gibes had gone abroad in Hephaistion’s name. No doubt his mourning had been sincere; but he’d not been slow to use the favor it brought him. He could speak honey as well as vinegar, knew how to amuse Alexander and make him laugh. Not a bad man; but not a good one either.

I was dozing, when Alexander returned. By the sky, it was not long past midnight. I was glad to get him back so early. “I left them at it,” he said. “The fever’s up a little. I’ll cool down in the bath, and get to bed.”

His breath shuddered as I disrobed him. He felt burning hot. “Let me just sponge you,” I said. “You ought not to bathe like this.”

“It will do me good.” He would hear no sense, but walked through in his bath-robe. He did not stay in the water long. I dried him, and had just put on his robe, when he said, “I’ll sleep here, I think,” and made for the couch by the pool. I went quickly over. He was shaking with ague in every limb; his teeth were chattering. He said, “Get me a good warm blanket.”

In Babylon, in midsummer, at midnight! I ran off and fetched his winter cloak. “This will do till the cold fit’s over. I’ll keep you warm.”

I covered him with it, and threw my own clothes on top, then got under and held him in my arms. He was shivering worse than ever, yet his skin was scorching. He said, “Closer,” as if we were naked in a snowstorm. As I wrapped myself round him, the prophetic voice was silent, which had said at Ekbatana, “Carve this upon your heart.” It spared me; it did not say, “Never again.”

The shivering stopped, he began to feel hot and to sweat, and I let him be. He said he would sleep here where it was fresher. I dressed and waked the Keeper of the Bedchamber, to send what he would need, and a pallet for me. Before morning the fever lessened, he slept, and I closed my eyes.

I woke to his voice. The bathhouse was full of people tiptoeing about. He had just waked, and was ordering Niarchos to be summoned. Niarchos? I thought; whatever does he want him for? I had forgotten, in my concern, that it was getting near time for the Arabian voyage. Alexander was planning a morning’s work.

He walked to the Bedchamber to be dressed; then, since he could hardly stand, lay on the divan. When Niarchos came, he asked if the propitiation sacrifice for the fleet was ready. Niarchos, who I could see was disturbed by his looks, said yes, and asked who he would like to make the offering-prayer for him. “What?” he said. “I’ll make it myself, of course. I’ll go by litter, I’m a little shaky today; I expect this is the last of it.” He brushed off Niarchos’ protests. “It was the favor of the gods that brought you safe from Ocean. I sacrificed for you then, and they heard me. I shall do it now.”

They bore him off, under an awning against the crushing Babylonian sun, in which he stepped out and stood to pour the libations. When he came back he could scarcely touch the light meal I’d ordered; but he had in Niarchos and all his chief officers, with a clerk to take notes, and was four full hours talking of supply ships, water and stores.

Days passed. The fever did not leave him. He meant, when the fleet sailed, himself to lead a supporting coast march, looking out for harbor sites; so he had to delay the sailing. Each morning he declared that he was better; each day he was carried to the household altar, to offer the morning prayer; each time he was weaker; each evening the fever began to mount.

The Bedchamber was full of people coming and going; the Palace, of officers awaiting orders. Though its thick walls kept out the sun, he craved for green shade and the sight of water, and had himself ferried across the river to the royal gardens. There he would lie under the trees, his eyes half closed, near a fountain that splashed into a basin of porphyry. Sometimes he sent for Niarchos and Perdikkas, to plan the voyage and the march, sometimes for Medios to gossip and play at knucklebones. Medios tired him, too proud of being chosen, staying too long.

Other times he chose the bathhouse, and had his bed set by the edge where he could step down easily; he liked to cool himself in the tepid water, to be dried sitting on the blue-tiled verge, and get back into clean sheets. He slept there too, for the cool, and the sound of the river lapping outside.

I did not leave him, for Medios, or the generals, or anyone else. I had put off easily my Palace dignities; the old man I had displaced gladly resumed them. I changed my court dress for serviceable linens. As Chief Eunuch of the Bedchamber, I would have had my daily offices, my occasions to withdraw. Now those who came saw only the Persian boy, holding a fan or drinking-cup, bringing blankets when an ague took him, sponging him and putting on dry sheets after a sweat, or sitting quiet on a cushion against the wall. I was safe, my place aroused no envy. Only one man would have taken it from me, and he was white ash on the winds of heaven.

When my lord sent the great men away, it was to me that he turned his eyes. I had one or two quiet slaves to fetch and carry; all the needs of his person I saw to myself. Thus people ceased to see me, more than the pillows or the water-ewer. They still sent to the Palace, by old custom, the pure spring water which had always been the drink of the Persian kings. It refreshed him; I kept it by him on the bed-table, in an earthen cooler.

At night I had my pallet set beside him. He could reach the water; if he wanted anything more, I always knew. Sometimes if the fever kept him restless he liked to talk to me, recalling old hardships and old wounds, to prove he would soon be victor of his sickness. He never spoke of the death-omens, any more than in the midst of battle he would have spoken of surrender. When he’d been ill a week, he still talked of marching in three days. “I can begin by litter, as soon as the fever’s down. This is nothing, to things I’ve thrown off before.”

They had given up asking him to have a doctor. “I don’t need the same lesson twice. Bagoas looks after me better than any doctor.”

“I would if you let me,” I said when they had gone. “A doctor would make you rest. But you think it’s only Bagoas, and do just what you like.” He had been carried out that day to sacrifice for the army. For the first time, he had poured the libation lying down.

“To honor the gods is necessary. You should be praising my obedience, gentle tyrant. I should like some wine, but I know better than to ask.”

“Not yet. You’ve the best water in Asia, here.” One reason I never went out when Medios came, was for fear the fool would give him wine.

“Yes, it’s good.” He emptied his cup; he’d only been teasing. When he grew lively, I knew the fever was coming up. But that evening it seemed less. I renewed my vows to the gods of what I’d give them for his recovery. When he rode out against the Scythians, the omens had been bad, but had been fulfilled by sickness only. I slept with my hopes reviving.

His voice woke me. It was still dark, the watch after midnight.

“Why have you not reported sooner? We have wasted half the night march. It will be noon, before we come to water. Why have you let me sleep?”

“Al’skander,” I said, “you were dreaming. This is not the desert.”

“Put a guard on the horses. Never mind the mules. Is Oxhead safe?”

His eyes wandered past me. I wrung out a sponge in mint-water and wiped his face. “See, it’s Bagoas. Is that better?” He pushed at my hand, saying, “Water? Are you mad? There’s not enough for the men to drink.”

His fever had mounted, at the time when it had always sunk. I tilted the cooler over the cup. It was half empty; and the stream was not clear but dark. It was wine. Someone had come while I slept.

Mastering my voice, I said softly, “Al’skander. Who brought the wine?”

“Has Menedas had water? Give it him first, he has fever.”

“We all have water, truly.” I emptied the cooler and filled it from the great jar. He drank thirstily. “Tell me, who gave you wine?”

“Iollas.” He had only named the King’s cupbearer. Disordered as he was, this may have been all he meant. Yet Iollas was Kassandros’ brother.

I went over to ask the night-slave, and found him sleeping. I had asked none of them to serve night and day, as I was doing. I left him as he was, lest being forewarned he should escape his punishment.

Alexander dozed restlessly till morning. The fever had not remitted, as it had at this time before. When they carried him to the household altar and put the libation cup in his hand, it shook so much that half the offering spilled before he could pour it. This change was from when he had the wine. Before, I could have sworn that he was mending.

The night-slave, when I questioned him, had known nothing; he must have slept for hours. I sent orders to the Household, that he should be flogged with the leaded whip. The night-guard squires knew nothing either, or so they said; it was not in my power to have them questioned. The bathhouse was harder than the Bedchamber to guard; someone might have slipped in from the river.

It was a grilling hot day. Alexander asked to be carried over to the shady place by the porphyry fountain. If a breath of breeze was stirring, one caught it there. I had stocked the summerhouse with everything he might need. As I settled him on the bed, I heard his breathing. It had a harshness which was new.

“Bagoas, can you prop me up a little? It catches me here.” He put his hand to his side.

He was naked but for the sheet. He had his hand to the wound from the Mallian arrow. This, I think, was the moment when first I knew.

I fetched pillows and eased him up on them. Despair was treachery while he fought on. He must not feel it in my voice, in my hands’ tenderness.

“I shouldn’t have had the wine. My own fault, I asked you.” He panted even from so few words, and pressed his hand to his side again.

“Al’skander, I never gave it you. Can you remember who did?”

“No. No, it was there. I woke and drank it.”

“Did Iollas bring it?”

“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes. I let him rest, and sat on the grass close by him. But he was resting to speak again. Presently he asked for the Captain of the Bodyguard. I went and beckoned him up.

Alexander said, “General order. All officers from commander up, assemble—in the inner courtyard—to await orders.”

I knew, then, that he began to guess.

There will be no farewell, I thought as I waved the palm-leaf fan to cool him and keep off the flies. He will not surrender. And nor must I.

A ferryload of his friends came over, to see how he was. I met them, to warn them he was short of breath. When they came up, he said, “I had—better—go back.”

The bearers were called. People crowded with him onto the ferry. He looked round and whispered, “Bagoas.” So one got out, and made room for me.

They took him to the Bedchamber, where winged gilded daimons guarded the great bed. Long ago, in another life, I had prepared it for another king.

We propped him on high pillows, but still heard the rasp of his breath. If he wanted anything, he spoke to me without voice, as he used when his wound was fresh. He knew I would understand him.

After a while, Perdikkas came in, to tell him the officers were still in the courtyard awaiting orders. He signed to bring them in. They crowded into the Bedchamber. He made a gesture of greeting; I saw him draw breath to speak, but he coughed instead and brought up blood. He motioned them to dismiss, and they went away. Not till the last had gone, did he press his hand to his side.

After this, the generals brought the doctors without his leave. Three came. Weak as he was, they feared him because of Glaukias; but he suffered quietly their fingers on his wrist, their ears laid to his chest. He watched them, as they looked at one another. When they brought a draught he took it and slept awhile. One of them stayed with him, so I rested an hour or two. He would need me there at night, with my wits about me.

At night he was in high fever. They would no longer leave him to me alone; three of the Companions watched with him. One of the doctors would have sat by his pillow; but he put out his hand and held my arm, so the doctor went.

It was a long night. The Companions dozed in their chairs. He coughed blood and then slept a little. About midnight his lips moved. I bent to hear. He said, “Don’t drive it away.” I looked about but saw nothing. “The snake,” he whispered, pointing to a shadowy corner. “Nobody harm him. He is sent.”

“No one shall harm him,” I said, “upon pain of death.”

He slept again. Then he said, “Hephaistion.”

His eyes were closed. I kissed his forehead and did not speak. He smiled, and was quiet.

In the morning he knew me, and where he was. The generals came in and stood about his bed. All over the room one could hear his labored breathing. He looked from one to the other. He knew well enough what it meant.

Perdikkas came forward and bent towards him. “Alexander. We all pray the gods will spare you for many years. But if their will is otherwise, to whom do you leave your kingdom?”

He forced his voice, so as to speak aloud. He began, this I have always believed, to pronounce the name of Krateros. But his breath caught, and he finished with a gasp. Perdikkas murmured to the others, “He says, To the strongest.”

Krateros, kratistos. The sounds so much alike, the meaning, even, of the name. Krateros, whom he had always trusted, was on his way to Macedon; I am persuaded he meant to leave him regent for the unborn child; King even, if it should be a girl, or die. But Krateros was a long way off; his cause was no one’s here.

Nor was it mine. What was Macedon to me, what did I care who ruled it? I looked only at my lord, to see if he was troubled; but he had not heard. While he was at peace, it was all one to me. If I gave offense to the others, they might take me from him. I held my tongue.

Presently he beckoned Perdikkas back; then drew from his finger the royal signet carved with Zeus enthroned, and gave it him. He had chosen a deputy, while he was too sick to rule. It need have meant no more than that.

Sitting quiet by the bed, only the Persian boy, I saw the faces begin to watch each other, reckoning policy and power, looking sideways at the ring.

He saw them. His eyes had been on the distance; but they moved, and I know he saw. I bent over him with the sponge; I thought he had seen enough. He looked at me as if we shared a secret. I laid my hand on his; there was a white band on his finger, where the ring had kept off the sun.

All was silent, but for his quick rough breath. In the quiet, I heard outside a deep stir, a many-voiced murmur. Ptolemy went out to see. When he did not return, Peukestas followed, then the others. Soon after, they all came in again.

Perdikkas said, “Alexander. It’s the Macedonians outside; all the men. They—they want to see you. I’ve told them it’s impossible, that you’re too ill. Do you think if I let in just a few, a score or so, to represent the others, do you think you could bear with that?”

His eyes opened wide. He began to cough. While I held the towel for the blood, he made a gesture of command, meaning, Wait till I am ready. Then he said, “All. Every man.”

Wherever the ring might be, the King was here. Perdikkas went out.

Alexander pushed himself a little sideways, and looked at me. I moved the pillows, to prop him there. Someone opened the private postern, for the men to leave by when they had passed the bed. Their muttering voices approached. Peukestas looked at me with kindness, and made a little motion with his head. He had always shown me courtesy; so I understood him. I said to Alexander, “I will come back after,” and went out by the postern door.

As soldiers to their general, as Macedonians to their King, they had come to bid him farewell. Now at the last they must find him all their own, not with his Persian boy closer to him than they.

From the alcove where I stood unseen, I watched them leaving, a stream of men I thought would never end, one after one. They wept, or spoke in husky whispers; or just looked dazed, as if they had learned that the sun would not rise tomorrow.

They took hours to go by. The day wore towards noon. I heard one say, “He greeted me with his eyes. He knew me.” Another said, “He recognized me right away. He tried to smile.” A young one said, “He gave me a look, and I thought, The world is breaking.” A veteran answered, “No, lad, the world goes on. But the gods alone know where.”

At last, no more came. I went in. He lay as I’d left him; all that time, he had held himself eyes-front to them, not letting one pass without a look of greeting. Now he lay like the dead, but for his panting breath. I thought, They have drained the last life from him, and left me nothing. May the dogs eat them.

I lifted him on one arm, and changed the pillows so that he lay easier. He opened his eyes, and smiled. I understood that this gift of theirs, whatever it had cost him, was what he would have asked of his guardian god. How could I grudge it him? I put away my anger.

The generals had stood aside while the men passed by. Ptolemy wiped his eyes. Perdikkas stepped over to the bed. “Alexander. When you are received among the gods, at what times shall we offer you worship?”

I don’t think he expected any answer; just wanted, if he could still be heard, to make a gift of honor, as he felt it due. He was heard. Alexander came back to us, as if out of deep water. The smile still hung about him. He whispered, “When you are happy.” Then he closed his eyes, and returned where he had been.

All day he lay on the high pillows, between the gilded daimons with spread wings. All day the great men came and went. Towards evening, they brought Roxane. The child was big in her. She flung herself on him, beating her breast and tearing her hair, wailing as if he were already dead. I saw his eyelids creasing. Her I dared not speak to, for I had seen her look of hate; but I whispered to Peukestas, “He can hear, it troubles him,” and they made her eunuchs lead her out.

Sometimes I could rouse him to take a drink of water; sometimes he seemed already in the death-sleep and would not stir for me; yet I felt his presence, and thought that he felt mine. I thought, I will not ask heaven for any sign from him; let him not be troubled by my love, only know of it if God pleases; for love is life to him, he has never turned it away.

Night fell and the lamps were kindled. Ptolemy stood by the bed, looking down, remembering him, I suppose, in Macedon as a child. Peukestas came up and said that he and a few friends were going to keep vigil for him at the shrine of Serapis. Alexander had brought the god’s cult from Egypt; he is a form of the risen Osiris; they would ask his oracle whether he would heal Alexander, if he were carried to the shrine.

It is man’s nature to hope even in extremity. As the flickering lamplight moved on his quiet face, mocking me with false shadows of life, I awaited some promise from the god. But my body knew. My body weighed with his death, as heavy as clay.

The night passed for me in starts and stretches. It was long since I had slept; sometimes I found myself with my head leaned on his pillow, and looked if he had stirred; but he slept on, with quick shallow breaths, broken with deep sighs. The lamps faded, the first pallor of dawn showed the shapes of the tall windows. His breathing had changed its sound, and something said to me, He is here.

I drew close and whispered, “I love you, Alexander,” and kissed him. Never mind, I thought, from whom his heart accepts it. Let it be according to his wish.

My hair had fallen on his breast. His eyes opened; his hand moved, and touched a strand, and ran it between his fingers.

He knew me. To that I will take my oath before the gods. It was to me that he bade farewell.

The others, who had seen him move, rose to their feet. But he had gone away. He was on the threshold of his journey.

Someone was at the door. Peukestas stood there. Ptolemy and Perdikkas went to meet him. He said, “We watched all night, and at dawn we went to the oracle. The god said it would be better for him here.”

When his breath ceased, the eunuchs all bewailed him. I suppose that I did too. Outside the Palace it was heard, and the sound spread through the city; there was no need to give out that the King was dead. As we took the high pillows from behind him, and laid him straight, the squires on guard came in and stood there bewildered, and walked out crying.

He had died with closed eyes and mouth, as seemly as in sleep. His hair was tousled from the tossing of his fever, and I combed it; I could not keep from doing it as if he could still feel. Then I looked for the great men who had half filled the Bedchamber, for someone to order how he was to be cared for. But they had all gone. The world had broken; the pieces lay like shattered gold, spoil for the strongest. They had gone to gather them up.

After a while the Palace eunuchs grew uneasy, not knowing who was King. One after another went off, to see how things stood; the lesser followed the greater. I did not notice at first that I was there alone.

I stayed, for I could not think of anywhere else to be. Someone will come, I thought; he is mine until they claim him. I uncovered his body, and looked at his wounds which I had known by touch in the dark, and covered him again. Then I sat down by the bed, and leaned my head on it, and I think that I fell asleep.

I woke to the slanting light of evening. No one had come. The air was heavy with heat. I thought, They must come soon, his body will not withstand it. But no breath of corruption came from him; he seemed no more than sleeping.

Always the life in him was stronger than in other men. I felt at his heart in vain; his breath did not mist the mirror; yet somewhere deep within him the soul might still remain, preparing to depart, but not yet gone. I spoke to that; not to his ears, I knew they would not hear me, but to whatever of him might hear.

“Go to the gods, unconquered Alexander. May the River of Ordeal be mild as milk to you, and bathe you in light, not fire. May your dead forgive you; you have given more life to men than you brought death. God made the bull to eat grass, but the lion not; and God alone will judge between them. You were never without love; where you go, may you find it waiting.”

At this, the memory came to me of Kalanos singing on his flower-wreathed bier. I thought, He has kept his word; he has put off for his sake being born again; himself having passed in peace through fire, he is here to lead him across the River. It eased my heart, to know he was not alone.

Suddenly, in this stillness, a great clamor approached the room. Ptolemy and Perdikkas rushed in with a band of soldiers, and the royal squires. Perdikkas shouted, “Bolt the doors!” and they crashed them to. There were shouts and hammerings; those outside broke in the doors. Perdikkas and Ptolemy called to their men to defend the King’s body from traitors and pretenders. I was almost crushed as they backed around the bed. The wars for the world had started; these people were fighting to possess him, as if he were a thing, a symbol, like the Mitra or the throne. I turned to him. When I saw him still lie calm, bearing all this without resentment, then I knew he was truly dead.

They had begun to fight, and were throwing javelins. I stood to shield him, and one of them grazed my arm. I have the scar to this day, the only wound I ever took for him.

Presently they parleyed, and went away to go on with their dispute outside. I bound up my arm with a bit of towel, and waited, for it was not proper he should be without attendance. I lit the night-lamp and set it by the bed, and watched with him, till at morning the embalmers came to take him from me, and fill him with everlasting myrrh.